


Doing Funny

by Pouxin



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Barman Marcus, Comedian Esca, Cottia is awesome, M/M, No really Esca can be funny, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca is a stand-up comic in Uncle Aquila's club. Marcus is the bartender, and the only person who never laughs at his jokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing Funny

Esca is funny. He knows he's funny. Being funny is his 'thing'. It's what stopped him getting beaten up at school, even though he was shorter than the other kids, and had an accent. It's what meant he was never short of girlfriends. Well, that was until he realised he wasn't that interested in girlfriends. It's what earns him his bloody living. OK, so, not everyone's going to like his style of stand up, his particular brand of humour, and that's fine. Esca can deal with that. But in real life, on a one to one basis, well... Esca is _funny_. All of his friends think he's funny. When they're describing him to someone else, a mutual acquaintance, someone he's perhaps met for five minutes at a party, they say: "you know, the funny one". And then everyone knows they're talking about Esca. Because he's _fucking funny_. So the only reason for Marcus Aquila not to find him funny is because he's deaf or stupid, or both. Occupational hazards of working behind a bar. Esca tells Marcus this. Marcus doesn't think it's funny. In fact, Marcus tells Esca he's a politically incorrect, insensitive barbarian. Straight up. Guy doesn't even crack a smile. Esca says: "I think you mean a _funny_ politically incorrect, insensitive barbarian." Marcus just carries on pouring pints.  


Esca doesn't know why it bothers him so much that Marcus Aquila doesn't think he's funny. At first he thought it was probably because Marcus is put together like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, all nice clean lines and abs like a xylophone and that good wholesome soapy smell. But then, Esca isn't exactly short of attention from that type. He could go out any night of the week and get himself some All-American-Homecoming-King action if that's what he wanted. Because he's funny.  


Then he thought it was perhaps because Marcus is the boss's nephew, and he likes his gig at Calleva Bar; it pays well, and always has a good crowd. And Eddie Izzard used to gig there. But then, Old Aquila seems to enjoy his sets. And even if he lost this gig, Esca could get plenty more, he's a pretty big name on the circuit now. Because he's _fun_.... yeah, well you get the picture.  


Then Esca thinks maybe it's just because it pisses him off, generally speaking, when people don't think he's funny. But then - it doesn't really. He still gets plenty of heckles: "why are you so shit?" and "get off you wanker”, or sometimes: "Stupid Bastard!" to which Esca replies: "Now we have your name Sir, what's your question?" Thank you Dennis Healey. And, on top of that, Cottia frequently tells him she doesn't think he's funny. "You're not funny, Esca," she says mildly, blowing on her neon blue nail polish to make it dry quicker as she lounges across the sofa in the apartment they share. She probably doesn't mean it. But she says it, and he still loves her to bits. She's the reason he got this gig in the first place; she's been waitressing at the bar since before they even became flatmates. So he's all out of ideas. But it does bother him. It really _bothers_ him.  
Then, one night after a particularly well received set, during which Marcus manages not to even glance vaguely in his direction, let alone smile or - heaven forbid - laugh, he decides that maybe Marcus does think he's funny after all, but is desperately in love with him, and playing the long game. Cottia is having none of it.

"Doubtful," she says, stacking glasses onto a decidedly flimsy looking tray.

"I'll have you know a lot of guys are in love with me," Esca says archly, sipping on his complementary whiskey. Well, scrounged is probably a better word than complementary. "I'm a fox. In France I would be called 'le reynard' and hunted with only my cunning to protect me."

"I'm sure a lot of guys are in love with you," Cottia replies. "Guys are stupid. And terrible judges of both aesthetics and humour. But I'm not convinced a lot of _straight_ guys are in love with you."

"You'd be surprised," Esca mutters. He inspects the golden swirls of his whiskey, paler where the ice touches it, with a studied nonchalance. "Anyway, how do you know he's straight?"

"Because I shagged him," Cottia says, giving Esca a _d'uh, stupid_ look, and then slides her eyes slightly mournfully over to where Marcus is unscrewing the beer nozzles and dropping them into a pint of soda, causing his tanned biceps to give a delicious little nudge against his rolled up shirt sleeves. 

Esca's stomach does strange, swooping things; something twisting and pulling in his guts. His mouth fills with wet, like he might be sick. Post-gig nerves. Surely. Post-Gig Stress Disorder. That or the amount of beer and whiskey he's already drunk this evening.

"You _shagged_ him?"

"Yeah, a couple of times, right when I started working here." She sighs and turns back to trying to stack glasses on top of glasses, in a way which looks, to Esca, extremely unsafe.

"And then he broke your heart? He doesn't look the type. Too basic."

"Nah, he didn't break my heart. I met G, and you know... That started going places". G is Guern, the latest in the line of Cottia's long-suffering boyfriends. He's a good guy, but not in the same league as Marcus, who is - _well_. But at least he laughs at Esca's jokes. Like any normal person would. "And Marcus was... I mean, you've known him a while," Cottia continues, "You know what he's like. He's just hard to get close to, is all. Much like your good self."

Esca regards Marcus Aquila narrowly, over the top of his whiskey glass. Marcus isn't 'hard to get close to', he's just a surly, grumpy, mardy, supercilious dick.

"And how was it?"

"How was what? Getting close to you? It was a magic carpet ride, Esc."

"No, getting to _know_ Marcus. In the Biblical sense."

"You're seriously asking me what he was like in bed? Jesus, you've got it bad."

"I'm not asking because I _care_. I'm asking because I'm curious. If he got any more uptight he could bend spoons with his arse. I can't imagine he's exactly dynamite in the sack."

"It was..." Cottia's smudgy hazel eyes trail back to Marcus, and linger over him in a way that makes Esca feel weirdly territorial "...intense."

"Intense: good; or intense: he started crying and then showed you his collection of severed heads?"

"Intense: good. It was like...um... He has that way of making you feel like you're the only person who means anything in all the world, you know?"

"No," Esca says sourly. "I don't know. He tends to make me feel like I'm something unpleasant he's found on the underside of the toilet seat. And I'm disappointed in you, Cots. I didn't want the sappy Mills & Boon version. I wanted details. You know, _details_. Like, how big is..."

Cottia raises a warning hand to Esca, causing the tray she's carrying to sway alarmingly.

"Esca, he's our boss's nephew. I'm _not_ discussing this with you. It's grossly inappropriate."

"You _love_ grossly inappropriate!"

"Are you going to give me a hand loading the glass washer, or are you going to leave?"

"Leave." Esca finishes his whiskey with one long draw, and plonks the glass unceremoniously onto Cottia's groaning tray. "Laters, wench."

He's almost out the door, purposefully not acknowledging Marcus Aquila _in any way_ so even if it did so happen that Marcus wanted to say goodbye to him, Esca wouldn't notice it, when Cottia calls after him.

"Massive!"

Esca looks round in surprise, only to accidentally catch Marcus' eye. At exactly the same time he figures out what Cottia is talking about. So he's all looking at Marcus, at his bayou green eyes and overripe lips, at the same time as he suddenly starts thinking about his massive cock. _Shit_. Esca starts to blush, and he _never_ blushes. It's one of the rules of stand up comedy. Never allow yourself to be embarrassed. _Ever_. Worse, Cottia sees the rising flush along his cheeks and gives her throaty, dirty laugh. She winks at Esca broadly. Marcus quirks one eyebrow at Esca questioningly. Well, he can't pretend not to acknowledge him now.

"Bye, Marcus," Esca manages, and it comes out as a rather undignified squeak. Jesus. _Jesus_. This is awful. Beyond awful. This is worse than when he got to the final of Stand Up Or Die in that pub in Maida Vale, only to lose the plot onstage and stand there for a full 20 seconds mute and sweating like a lawn sprinkler before the funeral march music started. Marcus almost - _almost_ \- smiles, and at that Esca is half running out the door, just making it to the street in time to throw up his last whiskey down a nearby drain cover. Well. At least he's lost his dignity in style.

**

Esca finds himself getting nervous before his gigs at Calleva Bar. Which is nuts, because he knows this crowd, knows what they want. This used to be one of his 'safe' gigs. He tells himself his nerves have nothing to do with Marcus Aquila, stalking behind the bar like some large, lithe panther; all coiled strength and dangerously casual grace. Marcus Aquila with his surly pout, and his war hero limp, and his long fingers on the beer pump. Marcus Aquila: not laughing as Esca tells his best jokes. Marcus Aquila fucking Cottia, those hands, those great big soldier's hands, woven into the spicy threads of her hair. Did he laugh with her? _Fuck_. No one likes a maudlin Northerner. Esca can't let this stupid _crush_ \- for he sees now that's what it is, much as it pains him to admit it, even to himself - effect his game. He can't.

So he tries extra hard for his next Calleva gig. All his best new material. Tries not to keep half an eye on Marcus. After he's finished, he spends some time talking with some punters, accepting their praise and small talk; then has a brief, friendly chat with Old Aquila, taking some time to pet Cub, the bar's resident dog; then badgers Cottia 'til she sneaks him a whiskey. Three whiskeys later, as the last drinker stumbles out into the crisp night air with Cottia following quickly behind him, he makes his way to the bar. Marcus is restocking the fridges, not looking at him.

"Where's Cottia?"

"She wanted an early night. I said I'd finish up." Marcus doesn't look round. At least he hasn't told Esca to leave.

"What did you think of the show tonight?"

"I, uh...," Marcus stands up stiffly from where has been crouched behind the bar, rubbing his thigh. "It was fine."

"Fine?" Esca asks acidly. He can't help himself. He'd spent _weeks_ writing that material. Weeks.

"I didn't really hear much of it," Marcus mutters, turning his attention to the drip trays.

"Let me guess, I was drowned out by the crowds of people overwhelming the bar in their rush to get so drunk they couldn't hear the inane witterings of a pathetic, unfunny twat like me. No, hang on... what was it? A politically incorrect insensitive barbarian."

Marcus at least has the good grace to blush. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, well you said it like that."

"I hardly knew you then, and you were being... you were 'taking the piss' out of me, as you guys say over here." Marcus finally meets his eyes, all hot and green and swampy. "I'm not stupid," he adds sharply.

"I know you're not stupid," Esca mutters darkly, "and it's called flirting. I realise now it was hugely unwelcome."

Marcus scowls. "What's called flirting?"

"When I was 'taking the piss out of you'. I was just trying to be... friendly. You know, mates and stuff. Banter."

"Flirting?" Marcus repeats, furrowing his brows in confusion.

"Yeah, you know." 

Marcus looks at him blankly, the remains of his scowl still clouding his heavy features. 

"This is awkward. Look, it's kind of my stick. my game, you know? Funny, funny: pretty boy sleeps with me. But don't worry, I realise I was waaaaay off base with that one."

"Pretty boy?" Marcus looks angry.

"Oh shit, look Marcus, don't hit me or anything. I'm sorry. This is like..." Esca mimes digging with a shovel. "Shit, just, come on, you're good looking, you must know you're good looking. Just because you're not gay doesn't mean I'm immune to your... _charms_."

"You think I'm a pretty boy," Marcus repeats, his voice a low growl that Esca would find sexy if he wasn't so on edge.

Esca shrugs slightly desperately. "Yeah. No. Whatever."

"That's what you think? _Pretty_."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

Marcus starts angrily stacking the drip trays on top of each other, sending a fine spray of beer up his strong, capable wrists. "Well, I'm sorry I didn't just bend over and oblige, so you could then move on to your next conquest, someone presumably worthy of the dazzling wit and rapier sharp repartee of the amazing Esca MacCunoval. Not just some dumb, crippled, pretty-boy _bar tender_."

"Marcus?" The three whiskeys coupled with the post-gig come-down is doing nothing to help Esca follow the thread of this increasingly bizarre encounter. He shrugs at Marcus helplessly.

"I guess I'm too stupid for anything more than that. What was it you called me to Cottia? Basic?" 

Marcus looks genuinely angry, and... something else.

"Why the fuck do you care?" Esca asks angrily, partly to try and tramp down the little hot flare of hope that has sprung up inside his belly at Marcus' unexpectedly passionate reaction. "You don't think I'm funny. You don't even _listen to my sets_."

Marcus stops stacking drip trays and stares away from Esca towards the stage, the muscles in his jaw flickering. "Esca, I don't listen to your sets because the whole time you're onstage all I can think about is how goddamn gorgeous you are, and how the lights make your hair look more golden than bronze, and how, like, _lickable_ your jaw is, and how I wish it was like... I don't know...burlesque or something, so you'd take that white shirt off but leave your suspenders on and..." Marcus fades off, giving Esca a strange, hungry sort of look. _So this what Cottia means by 'intense'_.

Esca manages a dry laugh, despite the fact that his palms are sweating and his heart is galloping through his chest like it wants to jump right out of it. This must be some sort of send-up, right? Payback for all his bar tender jokes. "And you accuse me of treating _you_ like a sex object," he says weakly.

"Yeah, well," Marcus mutters, suddenly looking abashed, turning his attention back to the drip trays.

"I don't think you're stupid. Or basic. Or whatever dumb thing it was I said," Esca says quickly, leaning forward slightly and resting his elbows on the sticky bar top. Marcus gives a small, curt nod, but doesn't look at him. He's obviously used-up all his talking for one night. Esca bites back the urge to say as much. "Actually, you're pretty insightful. Most of my stuff is totally puerile. I get that. I'm a dick. And I am a politically incorrect, insensitive barbarian. But, you know..." He shrugs his shoulders, arms still braced against the rich, dark wood. "It's like... I don't know. I wanted you to think I was funny". Then he adds with more emphasis, "I wanted _you_ to think that."

"I think you're funny, Esca," Marcus says quietly. 

"Say it again." Esca leans in even closer, hoping for a waft of Marcus' dark, clean scent.

"I think you're funny," Marcus says, louder this time, and his mouth gives a little quirk.

"And again. I love it when you talk dirty," Esca is using his 'joking' voice, but the air has gone thick between them, humid and hard to breathe, as if they were standing in a greenhouse.

"I think you're funny," Marcus says, voice soft and warm, and just for Esca.

Esca reaches out and fists a hand in Marcus' black shirt, pulls him along the side of the bar until they're almost at the end of it.

"Then laugh."

"Esca? I can't..."

" _Laugh_." He pulls him round the corner of the bar so they're facing each other, and digs his fingers in hard under Marcus' ribs. Marcus lets out a surprised bark of amusement.

"Jeez, Esca!"

"This was how my original set went, but your uncle wasn't much into it," Esca quips, as he leans in and blows a raspberry against the thick column of Marcus' neck. Marcus does laugh then, a welcome, rich sound; like a mountain spring, or the piano at the beginning of ' _My Baby Just Cares For Me_ '. The sound makes Esca think that actually there are even better things Marcus could be doing with his mouth than laughing. 

They explore some of those things.

"I went to Princeton, you know," Marcus murmurs between wet, desperate kisses, "I graduated cum magna laude. I'm just working here because my uncle... After I was discharged from the marines I..."

Esca shushes him, distracted by the feel of Marcus' black work shirt riding up to give Esca access to his firm, flat belly. "I think you're clever," he says, torn between using his hands to undo the shirt's buttons and continuing his exploration of Marcus' unexpectedly soft skin.

Marcus looks sceptical. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm just some idiot who works in a bar."

"I think you're fucking wonderful, OK," Esca replies, "Come on. I can hardly do my set in front of you I find you so...impressive. You give me worse stage fright than a group of 15 squaddies from Glasgow on a stag weekend."

Marcus harumphs at him. "You're just saying that because you think I'm _pretty_ and you want me to take my shirt off," he says, disengaging Esca's hands from his lower buttons.

"Uh...," Esca mutters, unsure of how to respond. Because he really does want Marcus to take his shirt off. Really, really.

Marcus takes his shirt off.

"Holy shit," Esca breathes. Marcus is all rippling gold perfection, tawny flesh and tight shoulders.

"I'm pretty funny as well you know," Marcus is saying, as he starts to unbutton his trousers.

"I, uh, sure."

"I'm not always so uptight that I can _bend spoons with my ass_."

Did Esca say that? It sounds like something he probably would say. Unfortunately his long term memory has abandoned him, along with his capacity for speech and rational thought, at the sight of Marcus' tight indigo boxers, already tented at the front by a promisingly rigid looking erection.

"Although I can try," Marcus adds. He turns slightly, giving Esca a view of the firm, high lines of his buttocks. "Would you like me to try?"

Esca's mind has gone completely blank with lust. He couldn't even come up with a joke if someone held a gun to his head and offered him a sell-out evening at the NIA. He just gapes as Marcus kicks out of his shoes and toes off his socks. Then Marcus is on him again, lips on that delicate, rarely touched spot where his jaw meets his neck, large hands on the curve of his arse. Esca is vaguely aware they are stumbling backwards towards the end of the club.

"Stage?" Marcus suggests. "I promise I'll pay attention to your _performance_." Esca is concerned his _performance_ might last all of 30 seconds, with the way Marcus is touching him and kissing him and rubbing against him, but he nods dumbly and allows Marcus to pull him up onto the stage and pin him against the wall. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from making an undignified moaning sound when Marcus' large, warm hand closes around the front of his jeans, fingers roughly fluting along the stiff rise of his cock.

"Hang on; Cottia," Esca manages, his voice sounding embarrassingly breathy to his own ears.

"No, not Cottia. Marcus," Marcus annunciates carefully. "Mar-cus."

"Ha ha," Esca says dryly, "I see I've created a monster here with the whole humour thing. I meant - like - as in... As in I know you slept with Cottia. So what...? What...?" Esca gestures between the two of them.

"Yeah, i'm bi. Is that a problem?" Marcus asks.

"Marcus, you've got your top off, and your hand's on my cock, and you're kissing me. Nothing's a problem. You could be into necrophilia or bestiality at this point, and it wouldn't be a problem."

"Well, it was a toss up between you and Cub this evening, I have to admit," Marcus jokes, turning his attention back to the arch of Esca's throat.

"See, you can do funny," Esca smiles.

"Oh yeah," Marcus says, grinding his cock against Esca's. "I can _do_ funny."

And he does.


End file.
